


Lizzie's Journal

by abeautifulmessofcontradictions



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:47:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abeautifulmessofcontradictions/pseuds/abeautifulmessofcontradictions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Lizzie and Tom are both schoolteachers. Lizzie is an aspiring romance writer. These are the details of the disintegration of her marriage with Tom told from Lizzie’s perspective, through her journal entries.</p><p>Other cast members make appearances in various OOC roles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry 1

Entry 1:

How long did you really think a woman could last without your touch? I thought that I could make myself not need you, that I could get by with supplementary touches of another, reaching out to friends and family for the tenderness I craved, for companionship, for love. I thought that I could substitute the comfort of your hands, which you were so unwilling to give, with the feel of a tiny child’s arms wrapped around me, the casual hand on the elbow of a colleague, the occasional hug from a friend. 

But I find myself seeking the kind words of strangers, begging companionship from a welcoming world more grateful than you. When was the last time you touched me without provocation? Caressed my shoulder just because? Have you forgotten how to make a woman feel loved? You blame your work, but to me that feels like a hollow excuse, as if you are putting, yet again, one more thing before me. It is painful. 

And so, I turn again to strangers. In the vast void of shared loneliness, I am reaching out for connection, for companionship, for love; for something more tangible than this; seeking searching for things you deny me, the things you will not give. 

So desperately do I crave them that I will punish myself with the anguish of my own heartbreak to make you see me. To stand before you, pleading with you to see me. And STILL you refuse my pain. Still, you close your eyes to it and yourself from me and turn away, unseeing. 

I try to be patient, to talk, to wait. But you do not want my words. You want my silence, my quiet acquiescence. You want to own my emotions, to keep them tucked away in a little box so you know that I still have them, that I am not a cold, unfeeling brick of clay, but so that you do not have to see them, to experience pain and heartache, loss and depression through my eyes. You would leave me alone with it, to feel the full weight of it on my shoulders as you do with everything significant or uncomfortable or messy.

So, I let you. I try to let you have control, bending me to your will, but it is not enough; it is never enough. I am not enough to live up to your high ideal, your priceless self-control, your loftiness, held apart and unemotional from others. I am never, ever going to be enough. I MUST not be, elsewise would you refuse me any compliment, and reprieve at all from the oppressive quietude of my own thoughts? Would you not try to draw me out of myself?

You come into the kitchen, passing me on your way out to the patio for a cigarette, the first of the day.

“Who are you writing for?” you ask. “For the doctor?”

“For me. For myself, for you.”

“I won’t read it; I’m not going to read it.”

Of course you won’t.


	2. Entry 2

Entry 2:

It is the second day.

The day after you said the things and I cried the rain and we did not speak. A day before coming home to silent and productive, closed off and still. One day past making decisions that did not involve you and yet felt as though they were about nothing else BUT you. 

One day after you came into the bedroom and wrapped your arms around me while I stood folding laundry by the bed and told me you were sorry with remorse in your voice, in that quiet, little boy sound that appeals to the part of me that wants to see you as young and innocent, a precocious, small boy whose mischievous nature gets him into trouble, not because he wants to cause pain, but because he is curious; a tow-headed boy in the basement taking apart his father’s radio. That is how you sound: apologetic without really understanding what it is that you’ve done wrong. You’re sorry that you upset me. You’re sorry that I cried. But you’re not sorry for the things you said or the way you said them and you will not remember this later, the next time, or the time after that. You’re not sorry for the way you made me feel or the things you made me believe. You think you are sorry, but you truly have no remorse or even the concept of what it means.

But, you sound apologetic now. Sincere. Your fingertips ghosting over the edge of my hand in an brief approximation of a caress, so slight that it almost seems deliberate, but so faintly that it leaves me to question whether or not I really felt it. And that is almost enough, that one touch, almost enough to make me turn around and throw my arms around you and accept and apologize for my part in the fight.

It is almost enough to make me believe you, to make me think you want this, too. But I know better.

So, I push that almost-caress to the back of my mind and I go back to folding laundry. 

“I know,” I murmur, so you do not suspect. Not an apology, not quite acquiescence, but enough to stall for one more day. 

Today is the second day; the day after I almost did not come home from work, almost went to a friend’s house for the night. The day after I cried all day: at school, in the car, in the kitchen. While you went outside to smoke a cigarette, even when I told myself it didn’t matter, even after I had convinced myself not to care. “I don’t need you,” I told myself then.

It is the day I decided to split myself into two pieces; to be happy and smiling at work, with friends; to be calm and withdrawn at home, unemotional, detached, the way you prefer me because emotion scares you and it has no place in our marriage. 

And myself when…..when I’m alone or driving, in the shower, when I write, in my dreams.


	3. Entry 3

Entry 3:

I remember my Samar telling the kids, “Go and hug her; let your Aunt hold you. Give her cuddles because she is sad and she needs them today.”

To feel like that everyday.

To call her Luli to hear Jackson’s little voice. “Can I come over and snuggle the baby?”

Just for a moment. Yes, I’ll drive over. No, I don’t mind.

To hold onto a student, just a little bit longer, my arm around her shoulders, not because she needs it; because I do.

To hold onto them as long as possible, making them laugh with my words about the psychological benefits of hugs because I know they do not like it, but I need it and all the while I am wishing someone would hold ME just a little longer.

To survive without touch from the person who was supposed to take over, from the person who does not know how. 

To know that if he read these words, he would think I was being melodramatic and he would tell me to stop, to sleep, to take a pill…..to know that he doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. It makes me feel small, not the vibrant woman I am at all, not the person I know I can be, the teacher, the sister, the wife, the friend.


	4. Entry 4

Entry 4:

“Why are you being so melodramatic?” he asks. “Why are you so over-emotional?”

“I just think it’s stupid; it’s a niche market. You’ll never make any money there.”

“It’s weird. You’re writing porn. How did you even think of this? Where do you get these ideas? What would ever make you think of this?”

“Who put these ideas in your head?”

“I just think it’s weird.” 

“You didn’t come up with this on your own, did you?”

Why am I trying to argue with him? To convince him his opinion matters? Because it does. It’s supposed to. But, maybe it shouldn’t. 

“Why are you being such a cunt?”

“God! Take a chill pill, would you?”

“The average book is, like, 1,000 pages. You’re never going to make it if you keep writing this small-time stuff. What makes you even think you could publish?”

“But, it’s not,” I say in a small voice. “I mean, maybe if you’re talking about Game of Thrones or Harry Potter, yeah...but the average book is more like 300 pages”  
“No, it isn’t,” you reply, so sure of yourself, as always; so unwilling to compromise.  
“I think, I really think, I could have something here,” I begin again, but I am crying now and you are getting angier.  
“What is wrong with you?”  
“Nothing! I just….we’re talking about my work and it’s important to me; I don’t understand why it’s not important to you.” I try to explain.  
“For who? I mean, who would even want to read this? It’s such a small market.”  
“Really?” I explode. “FIfty Shades of Grey?!? Penthouse?!? You think Playboy is small? These are million-dollar markets we’re talking about, with huge readership. Silhouette, Harlequin…” I have come prepared for this argument.  
“Yeah, but how much could they possibly pay? You’re not going to make any money.”  
“Last year’s story submission contest to Playboy paid out three grand. That seems pretty significant to me.” I expecct you to be surprised, stunned into silence by my revelation. But, of course, predictably, you are not. You simply continue on, changing tact…...  
You really believe that you are never wrong. 

“You’re writing again? Don’t you think you ought to give it a rest?”

“I just don’t understand why you’re doing it.”

“You’d better cool it.”

Everything you say comes as a warning. Why are you so scared?

“You’re just tired. You should stop staying up so late.”

I want to stamp my foot like a five-year-old and scream: 

“I do NOT need a nap!”

Even though I do. Even though I am exhausted; not from the writing or the long hours, but by the fighting with him. He is exhausting. Debating and anticipating, analyzing and re-analyzing what I said and why I said it, thinking over every phrase, reflecting on intonation and tone, on INTENTION. Trying to debate with someone who is NEVER going to say I’m right or admit a difference of opinion or begin to compromise.


	5. Entry 5

Entry 5:

“Are you still mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad.”

Yesterday you called me crazy and stupid and overly emotional; of course I’m still mad. But no, showing you that kind of emotion will only make me cry, and we can’t have that, now can we?

So I tell you that I am not mad and, what’s more, I make myself actually BE not mad. Because anger is exhausting and too much work and its easier to just be numb. Easier to live this life this way if emotion does not cloud my thinking. 

Move through your day. Save all your hurt for when you are alone, all your happy for the kids at school. 

Because if you can’t handle my pain, then you don’t deserve my happy.


	6. Entry 6

Entry 6:

It is the fourth day. 

The fourth day after what I have come to think of as “The Fight”. It is four days since I stopped caring what you thought; four days beyond making my decisions and altering myself. Four days after I vowed to change the way I talk to you, the way we interact.

Today is Saturday; it was Wednesday before, the day it all happened; for some reason that seems significant to me; I should remember Wednesday, it should remain important.

It has taken you two days to put your hands on me again, two days to wrap me in a hug. What is wrong with you? That you still don’t get it it, you still don’t understand? This is why I have to keep going, this is why I can’t stop, because you forget. You thought everything would be alright, that it would all be fine after you said you were sorry without really understanding why, after you hugged me once. But I knew better. I knew it wouldn’t change, that YOU wouldn’t change.

So, now, I continue, my plan in place. If you will not protect my heart, then I must do it for myself; it is as it should be, as it has always been, only now I KNOW what to expect and what I will do in response. And I have come to realize that the only thing holding me back from doing this long ago was fear.


	7. Entry 7

Entry 7:  


We lay on the couch after dinner, me with my head pillowed into the corner of the big sectional, you with my feet in your hands. You run your hand along my ankle, caress my thigh. You take your time, stroking your palm up and down my leg. You offer to scratch my back; you know I love that. I politely decline, refuse, it is not necessary; I have learned to care for myself, see to my own comfort.  


You slide down the couch, sit beside me, scratch my shoulders. I sigh for you, because it does feel good, but it doesn’t feel like it used to, like I thought it should. It doesn’t move me, I don’t feel comforted. I close my eyes and roll to my side. You return to your place on the couch, rubbing the top of my foot again. You travel the length of my calf, your palm trying to convince me you’re sorry.  


I have noticed you looking at me strangely this week, carefully, as though you can sense something is off, but you cannot define it. You are confused, attempting to work out the subtle changes in my behavior.  


I am not cold, not fully distant, but not at all myself. I have done nothing childish or overt; on the contrary, I have been polite, refined, considerate. Each day I come home and clean a room of the house, I make the bed, I fill the coffee pot for you. I make dinner, I say ‘thank you’, I fill the truck with gas. I clean up after myself and you, I feed the cats.  


You do all the things you always do, but I am no longer overly grateful, I do not trip over my tongue in my zeal to tell you how much I appreciate you, to express my gratitude in a way that builds you up.  


 I also have not asked your permission. I leave you a love note, respond to your texts throughout the day, call before I leave school. But I do not rush home on the day you unexpectedly come home early, I do not cancel my plans. I do not tell you about Book Club or babysitting or the trip to Orlando, not until they are upon us. Because you will only argue and we will fight and you will attempt to make me feel small again. And I don’t care anymore. You want me unemotional. I want my independence.


	8. Entry 8

Entry 8:

I have been awake all night, writing in my office, pushing lesson plans to the side in favor of fleshing out another character. I have been waiting for the sunrise, for you to get up, for the conversation that I know is coming, at once both dreading and eager for it.

I hear you wake, readying yourself for the day. You slept in the guest room last night. 

I am typing on the tablet in the kitchen when you come in to make your coffee.

“Are you going to stay home today and give the truck a rest or do I have to move cars around?” you ask, by way of a greeting.

“I’m going to visit Meera in Orlando,” I say, eyes on my computer screen.

“What?!” you explode, as predicted, “Why?”

“Because she is my friend and I want to see her,” i explain calmly.

You stomp out to the patio for a cigarette.

I know what you are doing out there; I have seen it a thousand times. You are formulating a plan in your head. You want to start a fight, to make me angry, to get me riled up. Because when I am angry and emotional, then you can hit me with yet another blow, you can mock my tears, eviscerate my feelings a little more by pointing out my inability to control them.

You know that I can’t argue when I’m upset; it’s not the way my brain works. I need time to process, to think about what i want to say and why; to decide if what I’m feeling is important enough to hurt you over. I prefer not to have regrets; I do not say things that I don’t mean, so I usually take a few days to respond when you hurt me. I sit with it for awhile, thinking on the things you said and the things i want to say, debating inflection in my head, testing word patterns, trying out my thoughts and matching them to emotions, imagining outcomes and practicing delivery for my words to have the maximum desired impact.

But, you have given me the advantage, because I already know what you are going to say and how you will say it. I am no longer surprised. And though I have spent the last seven years having this same fight with you over and over again with only slightly altered content, I have finally come to realize that the only thing i have control over in this situation, is myself, my response. So, I wait. I wait for you to finish your cigarette and determine your next attack, an attack I have already anticipated and prepared for, and when you return, I am ready. 

You slide open the patio door and stick your head in, sneering, “You know, we can’t afford for you to go traipsing up and down the countryside like your mother.”

Ooohh, you played the mom card, I think. You’re a badass. You feel good about that? That was pretty weak.

You continue, “I just fixed the truck! And now you want to drive to Orlando?”

I turn my head and smile sweetly over my shoulder, “Yes,” I reply, “Thank you for fixing the truck so I can go to Orlando.” And I turn back to my keyboard.

The patio door slams and I smile in quiet victory to myself as I imagine you readying for round two.

You come back in a few minutes later, ammunition ready. 

“When did you decide this?” you ask, preparing your coffee for the day. “Why do you need to go there?”

“Because she’s my friend and she lives here now and I haven’t seen her for at least two years. Because she needs me and I miss her and I’ve been a crap friend. Because I want to.” My voice is calm, even, more than I think it ever has been before.

You turn and stomp back to the bedroom to dress.

I take a deep breath and continue typing. I know you are not finished yet.

You stick your head around the corner, “You know, I should make you clean the truck. Huh? See if you can get it done.”

And this, I am unprepared for. I am thrown for a moment, bristling at the implication that he can make me do anything. Am I not a person? Am I not a fully-functioning, college-educated, 30-year-old woman who has managed to excel in a career, foster friendships, maintain healthy relationships with my parents, pull us out of debt?

But, I take a steadying breath and I turn my shoulders so I can face you fully and with my voice almost scary-quiet, say, “FIrst of all, I don’t think you’re going to make me do anything. And secondly, I will gladly wash the truck, as I have offered to do before,” and the finish on that phrase is so sickly sweet I can feel it stinging on the back of my tongue like a spent Sweetart.

And your face, my god, your FACE! It’s so crestfallen, you look so shell-shocked. It’s like you have absolutely no idea what to say in response to me, like I have actually rendered you speechless for once! There is nothing left to say, but still I am awed at my own sense of self-control.

Your confusion is palpable. You don’t understand what just happened. You have never been in this position and it is so delicious to watch the confusion play out across your features. 

You turn on your heel and stomp away.

I laugh in my head, a silent cheer of victory that I have actually won an argument. And this thought is only slightly tinged by the sorrow that I shouldn’t have to feel this way. Marriage shouldn’t feel like this. Because….when you resort to winning and losing, is there really anything left to fight for at all? 

And, by the way, my mom is a fucking rockstar.


	9. Entry 9

Entry 9:

My cellphone buzzes, waking me from a nap.

You are almost home; will I please come out and help you move cars around so you can park in the garage? Of course. 

I wake to find you standing at the end of the bed. “You fell back asleep,” you smile at me. 

I am apoligizing, but you don’t seem to mind; you tell me you know I was tired, you’re glad I got some sleep.

It is dark outside, late. I remember your text messages from earlier; checking to make sure I made it into the city ok, asking about my trip. I had debated not answering you at all, or answering too verbosely, as I usually do, gushing with details that you did not ask for in my excitement to share my life with you. I decided on polite, succinct responses that answered your questions, but offered nothing more. Cordial, polite, not overtly obtuse, do not ignore him, simply answer and move on. Don’t be a bitch, but make him come to you.

I climb out of bed, stumbling to the kitchen to find my keys. I struggle a bit to back the truck out of the driveway and barely remember to turn it around in the neighbor’s drive, backing it in so you don’t have to do it later. Proving I am self-sufficient.

I tumble out of the pickup, and you are there at my elbow. a hand to steady me as my feet hit the ground. “It’s a little crooked, but you’re mostly asleep,” you tease goodnaturedly. And you are so close to me, smiling genuinly, and I forget myself for a moment and lean in for a kiss, your lips so soft against mine; I remember at the last moment, the plan, and I pull back awkwardly, leaving you with just the ghost of a kiss. 

I feel so confused. You are my husband and I love you and if I want to kiss you, then I should. But, I am playing the long game here, and I know that if I give in now, nothing will ever change. And if things can change, if I can make you see what you are missing, if you can figure it out on your own, then everything could be different and we could still have forever.

So, I squeeze your arm reassuringly through your sweater and walk unsteadily back into the house. 

If he refuses to acknowledge your sadness, then he doesn’t deserve your happy.

I repeat these words in my head like a mantra, self-soothing. 

You eat dinner; I am not hungry. But I sit on the couch with you and when you sit down, you sit right next to me, uncommonly close, pressed against me shoulder to thigh. It feels….nice, comfortable, comforting. I wonder if it was an accident, if you simply sat closer than you meant to, because normally you would choose space between us, even if I tried to close the gap. This is strange, you picking closeness over distance. 

You get up to wash your plate and return to my side, just as close as before. I lay my head on your shoulder and you make a happy sound, so I let myself snuggle against you as I fall asleep.


	10. Entry 10

Entry 10:

It has been a week now, since that first fight. A week without touches or kisses or talk; even the kind that is usually initiated by me. I don’t think you know what to think. I know I don’t. 

Sam is coming for a visit. This will be harder; hiding the strain from my dad. 

I feel so confused by all of this. You have been sweet these last few days, going grocery shopping and buying my favorites to take to school, dancing goofily in the kitchen when you tell me about taking a day off from work, trying to snuggle. 

I wish I could believe that you are beginning to see what this feels like, this lack of emotion from your partner. I wish you really understood why I am doing this. That I feel broken; you have broken something in me that should not be this easy to fix, as easy as you are trying. 

But, I do not think that you do understand. i don’t think you have any idea and, try as you might, I do not think you can change or that you have changed. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I do know that it would take longer than a week for those changes to manifest. 

When I catalog all the things I have done to save us, to try and fix our marriage, the inequality is staggering. Therapy, journaling, medication, not to mention all the changes I’ve made to myself to satisfy your requirements, the appeasements to pacify your OCD tendencies, the successions to mollify your overbearing personality. And what have you done apart from fighting me at every turn? You refuse to attend even one couples counseling session, you will not even consider taking medication for sleep or anxiety, you will not acknowledge that there is anything wrong with our marriage; you are actively unsupportive of all of my endeavors, citing only the time, money, and resources that they will take away from you. It shouldn’t be this hard.

So, I answer your text messages, I talk to you when you begin conversations, but I do not initiate, I do not expect. 

I am blank.

I am neutral.

I am Switzerland.


	11. Entry 11

Entry 11:

Sam doesn’t say anything about the tension in my household. He doesn’t make mention of the stress and the quiet. I do not know why. I wait for the questions with the inevitibility of discovery and try to imagine how I will respond. All my possible answers sound bitter in my head. Bitter and judgemental and one-sided. Not for the first time, I feel guilty for the way I explain this situation to friends. Like I am being melodramatic, like I’m being unfair to him. The need to constantly qualify every story with the words, “Well, remember, you’re only getting my side of the story” and “I’m sure it’s not that bad” is strangling me. Sam just watches, quietly, and the questions and explanations between us go unasked until the last day of his visit.


	12. Entry 12

Entry 12:

“Do you want me to drive you to school?” you ask as I am getting ready for work.

“Don’t you have to go to work?” I stare into the bathroom mirror. I am confused.

“I’m taking the day off,” you reply from the bedroom. “You said the ‘Check Engine’ light came on the other day. I thought I’d take it to the auto parts store and have them run a diagnostic,” you explain.

“Oh.” I am still confused.

“There’s a Pep Boys at the end of Spring Hill Drive; that’s near your school, right?”

I don’t know whether to be more irritated that you are taking another day off from work that you didn’t even tell me about or that you still don’t really know where my school is after I’ve worked there for seven years.

“Um, no, not really,” I say. “Not at all, actually.”

“Ok,” you reply. “I’ll drive you to work and then take it to the store.”

I follow you into the kitchen, suspicious. “I have to DJ the Valentine’s Dance after school tonight. Are you going to want to drive all the way back to pick me up?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

I shake my head in disbelief; this is so out of character for you: you offering to drive out of your way, you coming to the school, you not arguing with me about staying late.

I try once more. “The store is nowhere near my school. It’s about halfway between here and school, actually. It’s not going to save you any time.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Um...ok. Well, I need to leave in about 20 minutes.”

And I walk back to the bathroom to finish my makeup, wondering what is really going on.

 

Twenty minutes later we are in the car and I am texting Aram. ‘He offered to drive me to school. He never does shit like this. This is weird.’

‘Aw, he wants to spend time with you!’

‘Yeah, no I don’t think so. I actually think this has very little to do with me.’

‘Well, just ask him.’

‘I already know what he’s going to say and it’s just going to hurt my feelings, so why should I bother? Why do that to myself?’

As we are pulling into the parking lot, I give you directions to drop me off at the door closest to my classroom. I remind you to pick me up at 6:30 after the dance at the front of the school. On an impulse, I ask if you want to come in for coffee before classes start; I notice that you have left yours at home.

You refuse, saying you want to get to the store right when they open; you have suddenly realized that it is farther away than you thought. I am stung with dual pangs of anger and pain: you have not listened again AND you are again putting something else before me. Seriously, you can’t take five minutes to have a cup of coffee?

I turn to you as I am climbing out of the car. And suddenly, I am saying the words that I didn’t want to say, I am asking you the thing that I already know the answer to.

“So...why did you want to drive me to work?” And foolishly, I am begging in my mind that you will say the words I long to hear because I am so starved for affection from you. Say you wanted to spend time with me. Please. Say you missed me.

“I dunno,” you laugh goofily. “I really thought your school was closer to the store.”

And I whisper goodbye and close the door. I knew it.


	13. Entry 13

Entry 13:

The dance is over and I am exhausted, my feet hurt from standing all day and then another three hours in front of the laptop and the sound panel and you are late picking me up. I am waiting at the front of the school with my AP and the students whose parents are also late when you finally arrive. 

“Guess it didn’t matter that I was a little late, huh?” you laugh.

I am annoyed. Yes, it does matter.

You introduce yourself to my boss, stand and talk to the other teachers amiably, laughing easily, as you never do with me anymore. 

We make plans to go to dinner with friends as the last students are finally picked up, but all throughout the meal I feel strained, tense. You are laughing with them, talking, far more social than usual, and I cannot help but feel left out. All I want to do is cry and now, suddenly, you are acting the part of the loving and dutiful husband?

I don’t know what to think anymore.


	14. Entry 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts to get a little explicit and mature. DO NOT read if that is not your thing...or, if you know me personally and you don't want to know these things. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts to get a little explicit and mature. DO NOT read if that is not your thing...or, if you know me personally and you don't want to know these things. :)

Entry 14:

I walk through the door, headset on, my mother’s voice in my ear and you pop your head around the corner, surprising me. 

“I guess you took another day off work?”

“Do you want to play with your new toy?” you ask with a mischievous smile.

“Um...yeah in a bit. Hey, mom, I’ve got to go.”

“Do you want some ‘help’?” you ask with a hopeful smile.

“No, not really,” I answer cooly.

You look shocked. And disappointed. Finally, I think, you know how I feel all the time.

“I bought you batteries!” It takes only seconds for your boyish eagerness to return.

I walk into the bedroom to change and I have to laugh at the array of batteries spread across the bed. You have bought every style and size for my toys. Even I have to admit, that’s pretty funny. 

Later, I do play. And no, I do not invite you to join.


	15. Entry 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts to get a little explicit and mature. DO NOT read if that is not your thing...or, if you know me personally and you don't want to know these things. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts to get a little explicit and mature. DO NOT read if that is not your thing...or, if you know me personally and you don't want to know these things. :)

Entry 15:

We have a conversation. An actual, honest-to-god conversation; the first in four weeks, since all this started.

“You haven’t noticed anything different? You really haven’t noticed anything that’s changed?” I ask from my seat at the table. I have been thinking about my last therapy session since yesterday; all the things she said running through my mind. Lately, I have been feeling the futility of my efforts, as if all that I have been doing has been to no purpose.

I need to try to talk to you.

You stare at me blankly.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“I mean, you haven’t noticed that anything is different with me?”

You just look at me.

“What are you digging at here?” you ask, confused and irritated with me. “Whatever you want to know, just ask.”

“I am asking,” I nearly explode. “I am asking you directly, exactly what I want to know; you just aren’t listening.” We pause, me looking at him expectantly, him staring in consternation. “Have you noticed anything different?”

You are not going to give me anything. Perhaps you are incapable of it, maybe you just don’t know how.

I do not want to give you the answers, I want you to work it out on your own, but this is going nowhere and I have to feed you a line.

“For the past four weeks, has it completely escaped your notice? That I don’t kiss you, that I don’t talk to you about anything? That I haven’t initiated touch in a month? That I only respond to you when I have to? That I haven’t asked for sex? That I’m spending all my time on the phone, with friends, at school, out, away from you?” I am fighting to keep my voice calm, but the tears threaten.

“I just thought that you were really into your writing.”

“Because you won’t talk to me!” I exclaim. “Because you don’t touch me! You don’t give me anything deeper than a conversation about the weather or whatever you saw on TV!”  
“You used to come out and give me a hug in the driveway when I got home and I always thought it was weird. You don’t do that anymore.” Your mind is struggling to come up with something, anything, that you have noticed.

This is the best you can come up with?! After four weeks of almost total radio silence, that’s the best you can do?!?!

I am exasperated, befuddled.

My tears threaten and I know I am about to lose the battle with my emotions. “I want to talk to you, but I swear to god, if you call me crazy again…” I take a breath. “If you use the words crazy, melodramatic, or over-emotional, I am leaving and I am legit NOT coming back tonight. I will spend the night at Samar’s.”

He looks surprised. “I would never call you crazy.”

I am so shocked that I can’t believe I haven’t come flying out of my seat. “You did! Twice. Four weeks ago. On a Wednesday morning right before I left for work. Believe me. I remember.”

“I’m sorry. I really don’t remember that.” And I am sure he doesn’t.

And then, I lose it on him. I unleash a month’s worth, a year’s worth, of unsaid accusations and hurt feelings in one unending tirade of guilt.

“You’ve gotten lazy. I want you to try like you did in the beginning, when we were dating. You don’t touch me, you don’t talk to me about anything deeper than what you saw on TV or read online. You don’t ask me about my day or, when you do, you interrupt me 30 seconds in and start talking about something totally unrelated. You don’t listen to me. You make me feel unappreciated and unimportant. And I have told you. I’ve told you exactly what I want. I’m a girl, make me feel like a girl! Girls want to be cuddled and told they’re pretty. I want you to seduce me and until you do, I’m not giving it up anymore. I’ll just keep buying more and better toys. I can take care of myself if you’re not going to do it, but I’m not going to include you in that if you don’t earn it. You need to try harder. We are broken, Tom, and I can’t be the only one trying to fix us. I can’t do it by myself. I’m trying to grow here, to heal, to help our relationship evolve, but I can’t be the only one. It won’t work. I asked my therapist about it, about what it meant if I was the only one working to fix our marriage, if I’m the only one who even notices that there is something wrong She said I’d either eventually have an affair, or leave you, or make you leave me. Does that scare you? Because it scares me! I don’t want to have an affair. But I don’t want to be miserable for the next 30 years. Why would I stay for that? Why would anyone?”

And I know I’m not being fair. I’m forgetting to use “I” statements, I am not sparing his feelings. And every word sounds like a complaint, even to my own ears. But I don’t care and I cannot stop. There are things that need to be said. 

“I know I’m making this sound like everything is your fault and I’m sorry, it’s not, but seriously, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT. I am trying and I have been for a long time. I didn’t know what else to do but cut you off and hope that you would notice. But you haven’t. I thought you did, in the beginning, I thought you were starting to see, to understand how I felt. I really thought you would sit up and take notice and think, ‘Wow, she’s not paying any attention to me. This sucks. I wonder what’s wrong. I wonder if she’s ok. I miss her. I wonder why she’s not touching me or kissing me or trying to get me to touch her. It’s weird that she doesn’t spend any time with me, that she doesn’t even sit on the couch and watch TV with me at night. It’s strange that she doesn’t invite me to do things with her or text me or tell me about her day or ask me about mine.’ But, you didn’t notice any of those things. How can you live someone and not notice such a huge and drastic change in personality? Have you even been paying attention at all?”

You are staring at me and I still don’t know if you see.

“You make me feel invisible,” I whisper.

I swallow around the lump of emotion in my throat and speak over my tears. 

“I can’t keep doing this. And even though I want to, I can’t go back to the way things have been, with me trying and you just...existing and taking advantage of me and leaving me to feel unappreciated.”

I take a deep breath. 

“And the car, my god, this shit with the car has got to stop. Cars are made to be driven and your fixation on their care is bordering on obsessive. Like, seriously, I think you may have a problem. ‘The car has to rest’? What the fuck is that? Who says that? Cars are meant to be driven and I am not driving it all over the fucking country. I go to work. I make stops on my way home. I don’t park near people and I’m a careful driver. I don’t even speed! So, get off my back about it. I appreciate that you take care of the car, and if me taking care of it myself is what you need in order for us to set some boundaries about it, then fine. I can take my own car to the carwash; it won’t be up to your standards, but it will be clean. I can get my own oil changed; yes, it will cost more, but you won’t have to do it and I can be responsible for that myself. But you are not going to keep hassling me about it.”

“Well, I’m still going to maintain the cars,” you say. Out of everything I have said, this is what you have hit on.

“Fine.”

I say the words that I know I have said before, though I am certain you haven’t ever heard them. “You spend so much time on the cars, on the computer, freaking out about work that you waste the little time we do have together. We can’t do things on Sunday nights because you’re nervous about work on Monday. We actually have really good friends who are willing to reschedule plans for Saturdays, but you almost always cancel those, too. And everything, everything is more important than me. You set me aside, literally move me out of the way, to wash the cars, mow the lawn, go to the store...as if you can’t spare 30 seconds to kiss me back, to hold me when I reach for you, to dance with me in the kitchen. It makes me feel so unloved.”

I am struggling to keep my composure here, what little is left of it after baring my soul.

“You are so negative, so dismissive about everything I do! It doesn’t matter if you agree with it or if you think it’s a good idea, you should be supportive no matter what. I’m your wife! Would it seriously kill you to just be supportive or keep your mouth shut? You are the person who is supposed to love me the most, to want more than anyone to see me succeed, but you don’t. Why do you constantly tear me down?”

“I don’t….I don’t mean to,” you stutter. “I just think it’s weird--”

“I don’t care!!! I don’t think it’s weird! No one else thinks it’s weird! And even if you do think it’s weird, I don’t want to hear it!.”

There is a long silence where no one speaks or moves.

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“You have to do better,” I tell you. “You have to try. I can’t do this by myself. I don’t want to stay around for this if I’m the only one.”

You are nodding at me, silent, and your eyes are a little wide. And they are blue, oh, they are so, so blue and I feel like I’m falling into them, drowning in these gorgeous little pools of beauty that are shimmering wetly with what almost looks like tears. I have to stop myself from falling into you because, really, all I want is to throw myself into your arms and sob. But, I can’t do that. Because if I do, then nothing will change.

“I feel like you’re my roommate,” I am crying now. “And that’s fine if that’s all you want to be. I can find other ways to fulfill my needs. I will spend time with the kids, I have school, I have a whole drawer of sex toys at this point!, I can talk to friends, my sisters… but I don’t want to. I don’t want to not talk to you about my life, I don’t want to have to keep things from you. I don’t like the way that feels.” 

I am winding down. You are acquiescing. 

“You have to be supportive of the things that are important to me, the things that feed my soul.”

You go into the bathroom off the kitchen to shave. I follow you to watch and press my fingers against your chin where a tiny rivulet of blood is forming where you nicked yourself with the razor.

I decide to lighten the mood. “And if you can’t be supportive, then you don’t get any of the money when I become famous.” I smile at you.

You laugh and it’s that laugh you do when you have just narrowly averted crying yourself. “I’m gonna get a dog then; a big dog.”

“When I publish my first best-seller, you can get any big dog you want.”

“And a typewriter? And a quiet little house in Massachusetts where you can write? Like in Love Actually?” you tease.

“No, Italy.” I explain, leaning my hip against the counter while you finish shaving. “Aram and I have already decided. We’re moving to Italy and building a big house with two wings, totally separate, but adjoined in the middle with a writer’s room so we can write together every day, whenever we want.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I don’t know about all that. That’s kind of weird.”

“I don’t care if it’s weird or not. It’s happening.”

You ask again, like the day before, hopeful, “Want to go play with your new toy?”

And maybe it’s because you actually seemed to listen through my whole speech without interrupting or changing the subject, or maybe it’s because I just want to throw you a bone, but I hear myself saying, “Yes.”

You are so happy, like a puppy, running into the bedroom, pulling out toys and stripping off your clothes. You actually do work really hard to make me come, but I can’t help but notice that you haven’t kissed me, haven’t touched me anywhere but there.

When I finish, you ask me if I will rub you. I smile enigmatically and decline, but offer to watch you do it. You try to twist my body so you can have me on my knees, but I tell you no, again with that smile. For some reason your confusion is comical to me.

“I can’t just bend you over the bed?” you ask desperately, frustrated.

“Nope,” I smile. “But, I’ll watch you.”

“Why?” you whine.

I shrug, “Because I never have; you never let me, and I want to. I’ve never seen you do it. I want to watch you, watch your face and your hands.” And you haven’t earned it yet, I think.

I settle down next to you in the dark as you begin to stroke yourself. 

“You’re always so quiet,” I observe. “It makes me feel loud.”

You smile into the darkness and focus on what you’re doing. It doesn’t take you long.

When you are finished, you get up and clean yourself off while I stay behind and have another go by myself. It is much better the second time.


	16. Entry 16

Entry 16:

“Want me to take you to school?” you ask again and I think, really?

“Um...no, I’m good, thanks.” I politely and uncomfortably decline your offer.

“Oh, come on. I’ll take you to school”

“Why? Why do you want to?” And, I know I’m kind of setting you up here, giving you a chance. 

“Because the cat doesn’t have hands!” you joke and I have to admit, that was pretty funny, so I laugh and let you off the hook.

“Well, I have to take the boys home after school, so you’ll have to do that with me. You don’t mind?”

“Why are you taking them?”

“Ellie’s having some trouble with her blood pressure; her doctor is worried about pre-eclampsia. She’s taking the day off and I don’t want her husband to have to leave her to get the boys from school.” I patiently explain that he will leave their car seats in my classroom and that they will ride the bus from their school to mine in the afternoon. This takes several passes as you don’t understand why all of this is happening.

I keep thinking about what happened last time and that knowledge is warring with the fact that I know you are trying here. I should give you this chance, but I cannot let go of my unease. 

As you are getting your keys and coffee, I blurt out, “I don’t think this is such a good idea. You’re throwing off my chi. I should just drive myself.”

You smile simply and wave away my concern as nonsense and we get in the car.

You talk to me about funny stories on the way and when you drop me off near my classroom door, near the parent pick-up loop, I remind you again to be there at 4:30, that we will drop off the boys and that we have been invited to dinner tonight as a thank-you. I point out the best place to park if you arrive after 4:00 so that you won’t be blocking the busses as they approach the school. I explain how the line works so you don’t get stuck.

The day passes normally and at 4:00 I collect my nephews and we do their homework and read in my office. I keep glancing out at the parking lot, looking for you. At 5:15, I call you and you groggily answer the phone.

“I thought I had to pick you up at 6:30,” you mumble. “You’re never done this early. I was taking a nap.”

I want to scream, We have someone else’s children here! But instead I calmly phone Ellie and let her know that we will be at least another 45 minutes late. They decide just to come pick up the boys themselves. 

By the time I realize that I could just ride with them and meet you at the restaurant, you are there. I call you and you tell me you are waiting for me at the front of the school. 

“Can you come pick me up where you dropped me off?” I ask when I call you.

“Uh,” you mutter in annoyance. “I’m at the front, by the office.”

“Right,” I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice when you sound annoyed because I asked you to do something that you-fucking-offered-to-do-this-morning-and-wasn’t my-idea-and-I-explained-five-fucking-times-and-you-still-screwed-up! “But, I’m over here, so can you please come get me?”

I hang up the phone and wait. And wait. And finally walk myself halfway around the outside of the whole school when I realize that you are definitely not coming to get me.

I have been at work all day, on my feet, chasing kids, and you have been home all day and could have slept any time, but you waited until it was time to pick me up, which obviously didn’t matter to you enough to commit to memory, and now you have the audacity to act irritated with me because I asked you to do the thing that you offered to do in the first place?!?!?!!? I should have fucking listened to my instincts in the fucking first place. I knew you were throwing off my chi.

I try to talk to you on the drive to the restaurant, try to explain why I’m mad, but you swiftly shut me down. You do not want to hear it. So, I furiously text my “I-statements” to you; using the skills my therapist has taught me to communicate your monumental fuck-up to you in a way that is both non-confrontational and fair. You will see them later, possibly while we are at dinner and maybe we’ll talk about them on the way home.

I feel unimportant when you don’t listen to me because it makes me think that you don’t value what I have to say.

I feel like what I feel or think is not important enough to you to commit to memory or write down.

I know you get distracted by other things, but try to put yourself in my place. How would you feel if EVERYTHING ELSE was more important to me than you were?

I really love your quirky sense of humor; it’s my favorite thing about you. But, it can’t be the only thing we have. It can’t be everything.

Later, you apologize; of course, you do. I still don’t think you get it. Maybe you never will.


	17. Entry 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts to get a little explicit and mature. DO NOT read if that is not your thing...or, if you know me personally and you don't want to know these things. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it starts to get a little explicit and mature. DO NOT read if that is not your thing...or, if you know me personally and you don't want to know these things. :)

Entry 17:

When I get home on Friday, you are excited to show me that you have made dinner and set the table. There are wine glasses and you’ve even used the nice placemats that we got as a wedding present. It’s pretty. It’s sweet. I’m impressed; you usually refuse to eat anywhere that isn’t the couch. We actually have a decent conversation; it’s still not what I want, not deep or important, but we are both trying.

You still haven’t really kissed me.

Aram and I have plans to watch “Speaking of Sex” together, him from his house and me from mine. I invite you to join us, if you want. You think we are weird, talking on the phone, sharing our thoughts as we watch the movie. I think it’s hilarious, but halfway through the movie, you bring the laptop over to show me the porn you’ve been watching for the last half hour. I have to laugh; you look so proud of yourself.

After the movie is over, you want to watch porn together and have sex.

“Wanna go play with your toys?”

“Sure.” 

Why did I say that? The answer was automatic.

We go to the bedroom, but something feels off this time, like you are trying too hard. For the first time in at least a year, you put your mouth on me. After awhile, you climb on top of me, pressing yourself against my cheek as I won’t open my mouth for you. 

I don’t know why I am reacting this way. I want to tell you to stop, this feels wrong, I am having flashbacks to college, to Jason. But my words are stuck and I can’t speak what I need to say. And the whole time I am laying there, I am fighting an internal battle with myself. In my head, I am screaming. 

Just tell him to stop, tell him to stop, tell him to stop.

But he’ll want to know why.

Then tell him! Tell him how you feel, tell him this is wrong, tell him about before.

I can’t; he doesn’t know. He won’t understand.

Stop this.

I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t know how to tell him that he hasn’t earned this yet and I deserve better, I deserve more. But it sounds so selfish, even in here, in my head. 

Just make him STOP!

I. Don’t. Know. How.

You move off me, finally, and ask me to rub you. Mutely, I comply, and it doesn’t take you long. After, I feel dirty, used, and angry with myself. This is all my fault. Why couldn’t I speak up? Why couldn’t I demand better, more? I come to the startling and disappointing realization that nothing at all has changed in me since 2003; I am still letting men use me, still settling for less than I deserve. I want to curl into the pillow and cry. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Hours later, I am angry at both of us and I have nowhere to direct it and I know I’m being irrational. What we did, what you did for me-- that isn’t foreplay! I want romance and seduction and I’ve told you all this before; I’ve written you a damn playbook and you refuse to read it! But, I try to look at it from your perspective: you probably think you did a great job, made some real strides. After all, you made dinner, set the table, provided wine, put on porn (which I actually do enjoy), offered to play, went down on me...but you still haven’t really touched me, you haven’t kissed me. I want to be caressed, I want you to make me feel cherished and perfect and loved. I want to feel desirable and beautiful and like the one and only thing you can’t bear to live without. You used to make me feel that way, so I know it’s possible. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable, but maybe I am. I start to vacilate. I should give you more credit, you are trying. I should be grateful, I should reciprocate, I should...I should.... But, no! These are my feelings and they are valid, even if they are just my own. I am allowed to feel this way. 

I cannot shake this impending sense that all of this is so wrong. I decide I just need to sleep. Sleep and then write.


	18. Entry 18

Entry 18:

It is three o’clock in the morning and Aram and I are seven hours into an all-night writing session. 

I am taking a short break to make more coffee when you stumble, bleary-eyed into the kitchen.

“God, it’s so hard to work when I keep getting woken up.”

I run the Keurig and turn to face you, “Why do you keep sleeping in the living room?”

“Because you snore and I knew your alarm was going to go off.”

“Yes, but there are two other bedrooms you could sleep in. You like sleeping back there anyway; it’s always quieter.”

You grumble something incoherent and I follow you into the bathroom.

“You know that I’m going to get up in the middle of the night to write; I do it every day. I’ve been doing it for two months.”

“It isn’t normal. It’s not normal to stay up all night like this. You’d be pissed if I was up all night talking on the phone with people.”

“Who determines what’s normal?”

I am met with your silence.

“You have to try a little bit, here. I can be quiet and I am. I can close the door to the craft room and whisper when I’m in the kitchen, but you have to try, too. Wear earplugs, sleep in the back room, listen to music, take a sleep aide. You not getting enough sleep is not always going to be my fault. Be proactive or stop complaining about it.”

You huff and walk away and I know this argument is over. Funny how I feel that we’ve resolved nothing.


	19. Entry 19

Entry 19:

You keep making me dinner.

Every day that you are home alone, I come home to find dinner made, table set, and you actually wanting to sit at the table and share a meal with me over conversation. This has been happening consistently, once a week, since The Talk.

I am cautiously optimistic, and yet, it feels so strange. You are clearly trying and all I can think about is how it feels hollow and empty to me. Too little, too late?

I try to give you credit for this. I show my appreciation with quiet and sincere thank-you’s. I participate in conversation with you, but I still do not ask you about your day unless you ask me first. I have spent so many years compensating for your lack of interest that I am bitter now, and reluctant to make the first move. There are some tenants that I hold firm to in my mind, things that I am sure are foundational elements of our marriage that are responsible for our happiness as a couple; I am certain that if I continue to provide all of them and you none, then we will fail.

I try to decide if I am being selfish. You are doing the right things, I suppose, but I feel incapable of letting them be enough. Do I have unrealistic expectations?

Or have I just gotten myself to the point where I am so numb to anything that doesn’t feel like pain that I don’t understand how to feel what this should feel like anymore? I’ve gotten really good at taking care of myself emotionally the past few months; maybe I don’t need you now, maybe I can’t accept emotional support from you anymore.

We go to work, we come home, we pass each other briefly. You sleep much as you always have and I sleep when I am tired, waking at all hours of the night to write. I throw myself into this obsession, sure in my resolve to be a success, researching publication strategies and meeting with other local writers, reading interesting and funny literature, writing and re-writing, taking requests for fictions online, collaborating with online partners who share my determination. You are not a part of this. Because you didn’t want to be. This is mine. And yet, sometimes I see you looking at me strangely when I talk to my writing partner or fret over the need to maintain our burgeoning social media presence to a friend or describe what I am trying to accomplish to someone new; you are looking at me with the expression of someone with their face pressed up to the glass from the outside looking in.

And I would love to bring you into my world,to include you in this, but you have to ask, you have to make that step for yourself first. If I make it for you, then nothing changes. But I feel like it is you showing an interest, so I suppose that is progress anyway.

I am sitting on the patio, reading this funny book to Aram over my headset, from the app on my phone. It is funny all on it’s own, but I am reading it theatrically, doing all the voices and my free hand is gesturing wildly in time to the cadence of her words. We are laughing, sometimes so much so that I have to stop reading. You step out onto the porch for a cigarette and watch me, listening. I am certain that at any moment you are going to tell me to cool it, to bring my voice down, the neighbors can all surely hear me saying ‘fuck’ and ‘vagina’. But you just watch me, with this kind of bizarre fascination until I finish the chapter and end the call.

“What is that?” you ask, interested or bemused, I am not sure which.

“It’s the book we’re reading for Book Club tomorrow. I’m trying to finish it in time. It’s just sooo funny!” I head into the kitchen to make more coffee and charge my headset.

“I’m pretty sure I have whatever kind of mental illness she has,” I continue.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m reading her book and she’s describing all these hilarious social situations where she is super awkward and says inappropriate things and there’s just a lot in the book that I can relate to,” I explain as I move around the kitchen, laughing at myself.

I feel guilty for spending so much time away from you when you are clearly trying with all the dinners and the conversations that still aren’t quite the conversations that I want to be having but that are better than what we did have before.

I think about all the times that you have spent hours, entire weekends on the house or the cars or the yard. I remember all the times that I have sat in the house, waiting for you to finish some project, not wanting to start something that would take my time away from you. And then I remember all the hours of crafting and school and time that I did take away from you. Am I a hypocrite? Isn’t what I’m doing exactly like that?

And then I remember that, no, the issue isn’t with you having a hobby or an obsession. The issue is about all the times that I have stood in front of you, begging for your touch, your kiss, a hug and being pushed aside; all the times I have offered up sex and been denied; all the times you have told me that mowing the lawn or changing the oil was way more important than taking sixty seconds out of your day to make me feel treasured and desirable.

And then I get all mad again.


	20. Entry 20

In my therapy session I talk about the things you said and did over the past two weeks that hurt my feelings and that angered me, but also the things that showed you were really trying. I admit that I am having a difficult time accepting the times you try. I am afraid. Afraid to let my guard down, afraid to give you even an inch back because I am scared that you will take it all away again. I have become comfortable in my independence; I feel different.

My therapist gives me suggestions and encourages me to talk to you, to be careful not to discount you, to show appreciation for your efforts. Now I have to try, too.

It is ok to have boundaries, it is ok to hold something back; it is NOT ok to be a bitch, it is not ok to hold back out of spite.

You are trying and that effort should be recognized. I am thinking about the training that the school sent me to yesterday about Mindset. If I want to have a Growth Mindset, then I have to be focused on effort, not on outcome. A marriage is a continual process, a cycle that is never truly complete.   

Coming to this realization is staggering. I set an expectation that you will try and now you are. Now, I have to try, too.


	21. Entry 21

I feel something is changing. 

I am, perhaps, a little less afraid of telling you how I feel, a little bolder with my touches, a little more open with you about my plans.

We are both trying.

You are home, again, when I arrive from school today. You have taken the day off again and I did not know, but I’m really not upset. I don’t feel anymore like you are trying to ambush me.

You are making breakfast for dinner and even though I want to write, I set aside my laptop and sit at the kitchen table and talk to you. You ask me about my day and you actually listen to me talk about it, interjecting funny comments here and there. I ask you about yours and we have a real conversation. 

You ask me how I want my eggs. It is all so normal.

I think about the Daily Love Dare challenge that Luli suggested we do together; today’s is about not speaking any negativity to your partner at all. I try to remember this as we talk.

“Will you take the Love Languages test with me after dinner?” I blurt out.

“Sure.”

“Really?! I’ll read it to you if you want.” I cannot contain my excitement that you are willing to try this, something that you have previously been so adverse to.

We proceed through the test as you clear the table and do the dishes. You are quirky and funny throughout, interjecting humor here and there and stating when you think a question is hard. You are being honest, but I am convinced that you are answering the way you think I want you to answer for at least some of them. I am surprised by many of your answers; I really thought I had you pegged. 

I tell you your scores and explain what they mean.

“This really surprises me,” I say. “I totally thought you’d be ‘Acts of Service’ and ‘Receiving Gifts’.”

“Why?”

“Well, because you are always doing things for me around the house and you always bring me things. And you seem really proud of yourself for buying me things you think I’ll like.”

“Oh.”

“Will you help me do mine?”

“Sure, I’ll read the questions to you.”

You turn the laptop towards you and reset the test. Sometimes I hesitate in answering, even though I have taken this test before, and surprise myself with my answers.

“This is hard,” I say.

“Why?”

“Well, I thought I knew how I would answer, but between these two, I think I’d actually rather choose the first one.”

“Ok,” you reply, clicking on it.

Sometimes you answer for me, with a grin, because the answer I will choose is so obvious, and it’s nice, almost like you’re gently poking fun at the things that I always nag you about wanting.

When we are both finished, the results are shocking to me. I want to talk about them, what they mean, but you look longingly towards the living room and remind me that The Voice is on, and though I don’t particularly want to watch it, I remember what my therapist said about trying to find opportunities to spend meaningful time together and I view it as an exercise in compromise.

“Yeah, let’s go watch your show. But, can we talk about this on the commercials?”

  
Maybe we’re both trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:  
> We both ranked Physical Touch and Words of Affirmation as our top two choices, though in different orders. We put equal emphasis on Acts of Service (only half of the possible points available for that category), both ranked Quality Time low, and both gave Receiving Gifts only one point each. 
> 
> Our interpretation is that we should focus more of our energy and attention on touch and intimacy, and praise and encouragement, and less on giving each other gifts. We’re still undecided on what the low scores on Quality Time mean, but I think that it’s not so much that we don’t enjoy spending time together as it is that we just don’t need to spend ALL our time together. I think that, given the choice between doing something more productive with our time or hanging out together, we’d both rather be doing something productive. Although, he did say that he likes it when I work on a project WITH him, so maybe our quality time should be a combination of the two zones. 
> 
> Maybe all this time, we’ve just been loving each other in the wrong way.


End file.
